b was attacked by a smorgasborg of depression wasps around a week ago. the bites on his head sizzled with the thirty six degree celsius arid rural air. he wheezed for a cool draft but fate was not on his side, as every particle around him conspired to eat the only vestige of happiness he had --- they all whispered, "you cannot have."
he did not miss home. he never missed home, as he was firmly set to believe that life had him born with the world on his feet. despite this, he was disturbed by the lingering thought that he should find someday, one way or another, to slow and eventually settle down. a wife to share with. children to pursue his legacy. just when he seriously thought he wanted all to fall into place, he broke into shattered fears of losing it, them, and never recover it, them again.
it could be now. or never again.
just start with "i like you". her forehead on yours. slide her long hair behind her ears, whisper incomprehensible sounds that mean to say "i like you" or "i love you" or "i want to spend my life with you." cliche.
b felt so alone. his comforts collapsing inside him. the noon sun glared at him, devastated and falling, he had to die.